Starting Over
by Ruralstar
Summary: Spencer Reid has no idea how to deal with Maeve's death


Starting Over

His eidetic memory coupled with the heightened ability to focus on any given task with almost perfect objectivity made Dr. Spencer Reid an invaluable asset to the BAU team. Unfortunately, that amazing brain also possessed the ability to catalogue emotional evens with a disturbing level of detail. He could remember every loss and every moment of betrayal without conscious distinction between accidental or intentional, personal or professional. He knew it was not the same for most of humanity. For 'normal people' there were instances of bone-jarring clarity warehoused in the back of the mind for sanity's sake. Or the 'I'll never forget where I was when' memories shared in mutual commiseration with people both strange and familiar. Spencer's familial circle of teammates was no different. All of them had been hurt by circumstances beyond their control. To say nothing of the bizarre cases that landed on their respective desks on a daily basis. Each member of the team had their own way of coping, or not, with the insanity as it related to their intimate selves. Spencer had witnessed the manifestations of un-channeled rage and sorrow countless times. He knew precisely what could happen from a clinical stand-point if one chose to hide from the truth. Said knowledge had proven utterly useless in regards to Maeve. Her death was different from any incident of physical or emotional pain he had ever experienced. Sharper, deeper, an endless numbing darkness... Spencer had run out of words to describe it, and had shut down in every way as a result. To forget one nanosecond of their last moments together was impossible, even in a state of utter exhaustion He had no choice, no real skills to process Maeve.

In the two weeks since her death, Spencer had torn his apartment apart in search of something he could not identify. Cleaning, eating, bathing, had all become unnecessary expenditures of his rapidly dwindling physical resources. He could not find the will to care what anyone might think, least of all his own traitorous mind which remained obstinately blank. It was only after Garcia's seventh visit and J.J.'s reassuring voice drifting beneath the door that the barrier finally began to crack. With a gun to his head Spencer could not have explained why, but as he lay on the couch cradling Maeve's gift against his chest he felt something give way. Not as overt as the hysterical sobs that had forced him to his knees beside Maeve's lifeless body. No this was a slower, more painful sensation settling upon his chest and sending tiny shocks across his frazzled nerves. He struggled for air, wondered idly if this was what a heart attack might feel like as the world brightened and then dimmed to a fuzzy, silent pinprick. In that semi-conscious state the reason why he had let everything in his ordered world completely fall apart coalesced with unexpected rapidity, forcing a jagged sigh from his chapped lips.

Spencer sat up and stared wide-eyed around the gloomy room. Every piece of furniture and much of the floor was covered with stacks of literature: philosophy texts, holy books, poetry anthologies, auto-biographies and research tomes. Scattered hither and yon in an attempt to discern answers in precedent, take guidance from the wisdom of the ages. The logical nature of this unconscious action was like a beacon in the dark and Spencer's mind anchored instantly to it. He had been seeking solace in the words of his fellow man. Using that search as a distraction from the reality of life without Maeve.

Why had he been unable to see the reason until now? Denial? Was this what the first stage of grief really looked like?

Spencer took a deep breath with the hope that another and then another might follow. They did and then the moment passed and he swallowed hard as the world rushed in through the tiny hole realization had created.

How could he put the pieces of this new, fractured reality together? And more importantly, why bother when Maeve would still be dead?

Two days after this stunted epiphany Spencer flew to San Francisco. Lured into the light by the order and objectivity of work, and driven by the need to breathe air untainted by the emotional quagmire he now dwelt in. Morgan's call had been more than a thinly veiled attempt to draw him out. He knew that in the same way he knew that Garcia had brought every basket to his building even before she owned up. Or that Hotch and Rossi had come one night and stood in the hall outside the apartment door and quietly discussed whether to ring the bell or leave. In the end they had chosen the latter. Sitting in the pitch-black on the opposite side of the door, Spencer had heard their whispers and felt their concern. And when he finally found the energy to sort through his mail, he knew without reading the return addresses that the two small cream colored envelopes near the bottom of the stack were sympathy cards from Blake and JJ. He went to San Francisco because they needed to see him as much as he needed to be seen.

_"How much time?"_

Spencer's brain approached problems with the expectation of measurable, quantifiable solutions. Life had taught him that this pedantic world-view was next to impossible to maintain. Still, he persisted. Especially with something as subjective and order defying as grief. He knew that it was not a question Hotch could answer with any degree of satisfaction but Spencer was incapable of just 'taking time' and waiting. He needed to be proactive but private, at least for now. The latter imperative gave him the will to stop short of actually asking Aaron how he had dealt with Haley's death. In his current state any advice would be meaningless, his reaction to it unpredictable at best. Standing there in disheveled clothes, unshaven and light-headed because he had forgotten to eat since the day before, Spencer resisted the urge to query and thereby prove how torn he really was. He settled for a murmured "I'm okay," to Blake and a slight nod at Hotch's reassurance, even though all he really wanted to do was go back to his couch and curl into a fetal ball.

When the case was over Spencer had intended to fly home alone. Unsure what awaited him, what his next move should be—or even if he had one. He would have succeeded in slipping away if JJ had not found him sitting in a coffee shop across from the police precinct. Later on the plane, he considered the possibility that his subconscious wanted to be found given his well-known predilection for caffeine. At the time he was too weary to do more than sit back in his chair and look up at her through unfocused eyes. JJ did not ask about his plans. Merely brushed a hand across his shoulder and picked up his satchel from the adjacent chair. When Spencer stood up she handed it to him, dropped a ten on the table, and nodded towards the door. There were no words exchanged en route to the airport but he sensed the team's relief upon arrival. The sensation enfolded him like a blanket, buoyed him as the plane taxied down the airstrip and launched into the gathering darkness. The pressure in his chest, the ache in his throat, the tears that had been so close for weeks, began to recede.

Spencer did not know precisely when JJ sat down across from him. When he finally looked up her expression was open and patient. A corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly and she took it as an invitation to make an observation about the baskets. His bemused reply came out without thought. The apology that followed was unexpected. He wondered if he had actually spoken aloud until JJ's gentle denial confirmed that the words had found voice, and that they were unnecessary to the people that loved him. Morgan was more direct in his consolation and a small part of Spencer clenched defensively. He swallowed the fear and looked up. Knowing that Morgan needed the reassurance of understanding and feeling a modicum of surprise that he could offer what had been so freely given by everyone since that horrible day.

"Listen if you need anything at all you just have to ask."

There was so little any one human being could do for another in times of loss. So much that wanted saying and was perhaps best conveyed in action. Such a simple concept had somehow escaped him. Spencer could not dwell on the reasons why. Those would come with time and he doubted that he would ever truly be satisfied with the explanation. In the echo of Morgan's words there lay a beginning of sorts and he seized it.

"Actually, if you guys don't mind I could use your help with something…"

"_Sometimes the hardest part isn't letting go but rather learning to start over." ― Nicole Sobon_


End file.
